David Hockney died and I'm unexpectedly extremely upset about it. We are both from the same set of villages in Bradford.
At the top of my street was a fish and chip shop with a drawing by him done in 1954, still hanging there. They must've known what it was worth but it never moved.
The story of Icarus provides us with a valuable lesson: never fuck up real bad
I also have thoughts about Davisian writing being so distinctive (derogatory) but it hardly seems the time.